


Letterbomb

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Hair Color is Important, M/M, Mild Smut, These two look so much alike at some angles that I'm tempted to tag this as incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Die and Aoi are one of the same shade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letterbomb

“We’re clashing.”

Aoi let his lips hover against the styrofoam of his coffee – black, one sugar – before tilting his head to regard the man sitting beside him in askance. 

Taking in Die’s smirk and casual glance, Aoi thrummed his fingers against the cup, silver bands creating a muted rhythm.  The guitarist breathed in the scent of hazelnut and Bvlgari, allowing his amused gaze to linger on Die’s, and raised a roseate brow.

“Are we?”

The smirk grew, “Definitely making a statement.”  
A glimmer of mischief and a promise of waistband friction danced in those slate contacts.

Aoi snorted, a playful smile touching the corner of his lips, and took another sip.

The shop they had wandered into, listless and hungry, was mostly silent – a lazy calm drifting between the two of them.  It was slightly cramped, tables and chairs squeezed together in the small space to make room for espresso machines and caffeinated memorabilia – so Die was practically sprawled across the rhythm guitarist’s lap.  Close enough for Aoi to occasionally bestow subtle, chaste kisses to his neck or casually twine strands of red hair around his fingers.  However, subtlety was a foreign notion to Die – slender hands tracing sloppy patterns along the inseam of Aoi’s jeans; leaning over brashly to catch Aoi’s mouth in mid-sentence or sip.

The damp, brown napkins strewn across their table and Aoi’s stained sleeve were a testament to the latter.

The stark taste of black coffee was scalding his tongue as Aoi stared at Die’s flaming locks, remembering his own newest color of choice as well.  The color of mid-life crises, as Die had dubbed it.

An obnoxiously bright piece of his pink bang drifted into his left eye.  The hand in his lap began to draw music notes with callused fingertips along his thigh.

Aoi could feel a grin tickle his voice, “It ‘ _goes_ ’.”  Another sip and smirk, “Not everything has to match.”

Die immediately flickered his gaze downward to stare pointedly at the younger’s favorite pair of orange crocs. 

Aoi wiggled his toes at him, mockingly.

Die beamed and leaned over, supine body draping itself perfectly against Aoi’s, lips pressing to his ear softly, “I’m pretty sure red and pink clash…”

Aoi turned his head into Die’s warmth, breaths mingling and the scent of roasted coffee wafting over their skin as he whispered low, “Nonsense.  We’re one of the same shade.”

And they were – still are, later when Die pulls Aoi by that gaudy, silver necklace, pushes him into those navy sheets and hushed promises.

Aoi’s gasping lips are as red as Die’s short locks, and he finds each bone of the elder’s ribs to mouth silently along the flesh, “ _We’re clashing, clashing –_ ”

Die’s eyes are dark – flint orbs of burning embers – and he fists a clump of sunset-pink hair, reveling in the hue against his alabaster hand.  He tugs, the other’s head snapping back so he can mold his maw to that neck, that fluttering pulse.  It’s bruising and rushed, and Aoi’s hands are suddenly reaching up, up.

The younger’s fingers gently touch the hollows of Die’s eyes – eyes that are black, smoldering, drowning in this heat.  He smears the ebony makeup that lingers there, wiping away an identity because it’s just them now, just their heaving lungs and rolling hips.  Aoi takes his smudged fingertips and drags them down Die’s bare chest – leaving lovely streaks of kohl upon the flushed skin.

Die’s breath catches and he has to close his eyes against the feather-touch lest he rattles apart.

And they’re both so close and far and together that they can only hold on, reach and grapple for one another as they fall.

Because they’re clashing – careening, colliding.

And when Die opens his eyes, the dawn-pink of Aoi’s smile clashes perfectly.


End file.
